


Ratchet's Issues Have Issues

by boltshok



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M, get a room, it gets fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-16 15:47:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12345753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boltshok/pseuds/boltshok
Summary: Ratchet has issues. Wheeljack is an issue. Wheeljack has issues. Now kiss.





	Ratchet's Issues Have Issues

In the medbay, chief medical officer Ratchet sits inside his office, propping his aching leg up on his desk. The old battle wound throbs on the best of days, and he uses a cane on occasion. Today, his leg was cooperative enough to not warrant the use of a mobility aid, thankfully. After settling his leg on a folded up towel on the desk, he begins scribbling medical notes into one of the several charts from a stack on his desk, muttering under his breath. A warning flashes on one of his internal sensors: fuel levels low. Ratchet growls to himself, dismissing the warning. Rubbing at his face roughly, Ratchet slaps the desk once before leaning back in his reclining office chair. 

Opening up the top desk drawer, Ratchet pulls out a small cube of energon, working the top off and taking a small sip. Warmth blooms in his mouth, burning down his throat to his fuel tanks. Ratchet sighs, relishing the feeling of the engex hitting his tanks. He needed a drink. The shift had been long; he deserved it.

Finishing with his current report, Ratchet creates a new pile on the left side of his desk for completed charts. Setting the report down, he takes a moment to study his armor, sipping at the cube of engex. His forearms were stained by ground-in soot from the burn wounds he treated, and he rubs at the white plating futilely, unable to remove much of the grey discoloration. His boxy, white armor was never immaculate, but he tried to keep it clean enough to not beg anyone’s attention. A medic with an engex addiction and lacking sleep would do no good to anyone, or so thought the rest of the Autobot high-and-mighty command. Self-sacrificing Optimus Prime and his oh-so-glorious feats of miracles, and pompous Prowl with that bloody monotone and disregard for self and his logic. And then Jazz... everyone else loves Jazz, but his irritating smile and never-ending happiness never fails to quash Ratchet’s own brief joys. These habits were the only things keeping Ratchet functioning around the rest of these lunatics... but he knows that Optimus means well, and Prowl to an extent. Taking another swig of engex, Ratchet grabs another medical chart and begins work on scrawling down his report. 

The pane of glass in his office wall vibrates in its casing, and Ratchet sighs. Groaning internally, he sets the current report aside and carefully lowers his leg down to the floor. Ratchet takes a deep breath and stands, the throbbing in his leg increasing for a moment before receding into a dull ache. Ratchet limps into the medbay, grabbing a medical kit from a supply shelf before making for the exit. 

The prototype weapons and design lab located directly beside the medbay was prone to frequent explosions due to the eccentric engineer, Wheeljack. They met on Cybertron when they both attended the Academy, Ratchet chasing a medical degree and Wheeljack a weapons development certificate.

The lab’s detonation was nothing surprising—it blew up at least once a month, if not twice. Ratchet was accustomed to cleaning Wheeljack up after these explosions, but rarely had he ever said anything to the scientist about the constant damages. If he drew any kind of attention to Wheeljack’s destructive behaviors it would open the door for Wheeljack to return the favor; that kind of scrutiny would be unbearable.

More thoughts wormed their way to the forefront of Ratchet’s mind as he limped towards the lab. Wheeljack could not go on like this sustainably. Ratchet had already rebuilt him several times due to these explosions, each repair slightly more in-depth than the last. Such severe rebuilding was no good for anyone. Wheeljack’s face was already irreparably damaged from a lab blast, and that same damage could happen again, to something more vital. Reaching the doorway, Ratchet hoped that Wheeljack had at least avoided the brunt of the detonation this time, and pushed the door open. Stepping back as black smoke billows into the hallway, Ratchet waves away some of the smoke.

“Wheeljack?” he calls gruffly, trying to mask the underlying concern in his voice.

Coughing and shuffling is the only response from the engineer as Wheeljack stumbles out of the lab, cradling his right arm. His breastplate is marred with black streaks from the explosion, but the rest of him seems whole. The fins on the side of his helm flash brightly at Ratchet, and he laughs sheepishly. 

“Hey, Ratch,” he greets. “I need a patch job.”

Ratchet takes in Wheeljack’s blackened frame before inspecting his arm. The wound isn’t critical, but will require immediate attention. “You can walk. Get yourself down to medbay where I can do this properly.”

Wheeljack laughs some more, turning for the medbay. Ratchet follows him, shoving his thoughts aside. This is fine. Wheeljack is fine, the repair won’t take as much work as some of the other repairs. He won’t bring up his concerns. Can’t.

Entering the medbay, Wheeljack glances back at Ratchet, letting the medic lead him over to a medical berth. 

“Here, sit,” Ratchet grunts, setting the medical kit down on one of the nearby tray tables.

Wheeljack sits himself on the berth, swinging his legs. 

“How’s your day been going?” Wheeljack prompts, watching as Ratchet opens the medical kit.

“Fine.”

“I saw those burn victims... gnarly-looking wounds,” Wheeljack says.

“They’re fixed now.”

Ratchet takes ahold of Wheeljack’s arm, studying the armor and wound. Gripping the armor piece, Ratchet carefully guides it off of Wheeljack’s arm, ensuring the wound is not aggravated any further. Wheeljack’s helm fins flash red as he squeaks in pain. Preparing some cleaning solution, Ratchet douses a rag and begins wiping away grime and armor bits from the wound, ignoring Wheeljack’s continued complaining and flashing red fins. Wheeljack’s forearm is mangled, but thankfully his hand is intact; hands are notoriously hard to repair, because of the tiny mechanisms that hold them together.

“I think I’m about to make another breakthrough,” Wheeljack tells him, looking away from the wound, towards the direction of Ratchet’s office. “That converter is going to work one of these days.”

Ratchet glances up at Wheeljack, then follows the inventor’s line of sight to Ratchet’s office. The engex cube is still sitting out on his desk, and Ratchet looks back to the wound. Biting his lower lip, Ratchet focuses on the task at hand. Hopefully, Wheeljack won’t say anything.

“Is that engex?”

Ratchet stills his cleaning, then looks away. “No.”

“Ratch, when was the last time you slept?” Wheeljack asks lowly, leaning in to close the distance between them. Ratchet grunts but does not answer, not meeting Wheeljack’s eyes.

“Have you eaten today? Real fuel, not that Nightmare stuff from the bar.”

“Wheeljack, I’m a busy mech,” Ratchet mutters, setting the rag aside and picking out his welder from the repair kit. He flicks it on, bringing the flame down to a small jet.

“Ratch, you have to take care of yourself. What am I gonna do if you become incapacitated because you weren’t looking after yourself properly?”

Ratchet freezes, gripping the welder tightly. His shoulders hunch up with each word coming out of Wheeljack’s mouth, driving his anger and anxiety even higher. Wheeljack... lecturing him... about self-care?

“I can bring some energon cubes over and we can have lunch together,” Wheeljack continues, helm fins flashing brightly as he gazes off into the distance, gesturing with his one functional arm. “You can crash in my quarters tonight too, just like we did in the Academy-”

“Wheeljack!” 

The engineer stops talking, fin-lights fading. He notices Ratchet’s hunched-up posture, and his white-knuckle grip on the welder. “...what?”

Ratchet closes his eyes, breathing deeply. The intake of air did nothing to quell his anger, and when he reopens his eyes it blazes anew.

“No!” he snaps, turning on Wheeljack. “No. No! It’s not the same as it was!” Ratchet bellows. “In the Academy, you rarely blew anything up! Just this month, your lab has ignited twice already!”

Wheeljack stares at Ratchet, eyeing the welder in Ratchet’s hand as Ratchet throws his hands in the air.

“Do you understand how many resources are being wasted? Energon, power, raw supplies! YOu waste it all as if it was cheap! And you dare talk about my engex use? One of these days, your lab is going to ignite and burn the whole place down! Everyone is going to end up like those refinery workers! You’re going to end up just like those refinery workers!”

Wheeljack blinks a couple times, still in shock.

“I can’t just stand by and watch you continue to damage yourself!” Ratchet continues, setting the welder down sharply, the flame dying out. “I won’t! You’re too important to me, and I care about yo-”

Wheeljack stands, enveloping Ratchet in a tight hug. Ratchet falls silent, gaping down at Wheeljack. The longer Wheeljack is wrapped around him, Ratchet gradually encircles Wheeljack with his own arms.

“It’s going to be okay,” Ratch,” Wheeljack murmurs. “I’ll take better care of myself. Promise.”

They stand together for several minutes, until Ratchet has relaxed enough to continue. “Okay... Jackie, I’m holding you to that, alright?”

“Sounds good, Ratch.”


End file.
